


Pass Us The Mic (Hold On Tight)

by thekindofworld



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 01:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19141306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekindofworld/pseuds/thekindofworld
Summary: “Lee,” Harry whimpers. “Lee, I hate my life.”“Shhhh,” Lee says, waving him off. “I’m watching my future husband sing.”“You’re straight.”“Not anymore. I’m ready to have this lad’s babies and take his name. What’s his name?”“Thank you,” the boy says, as he finishes, and the hall erupts in thunderous applause. He still looks a little forlorn under that stunning smile, a little terrified; but mostly relieved. Harry knows that fear, that petrifying whisper that was probably telling him through the whole song that he was fucking it up. “Thanks, I’m Louis Tomlinson, I’m… not here all night, I’m grounded for pulling the fire alarm last week. Stay in school, kids.”





	Pass Us The Mic (Hold On Tight)

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't going to be a long fic, but I've been wanting to write about growing up as a teen in Britain in 2009 for a while, and this has given me the perfect opportunity. Expect copious amounts of WKD Blue, a bit of footie, and two GCSE students trying to navigate crushes when they're on rival teams and surrounded by casual homophobia.

Louis doesn’t hear Stan the first three times he yells his name.

His voice doesn’t quite cut through Greenday’s drawling and Louis is busy brooding under the spray of sticky, early autumn rain soaking through the holes in the bottom of his trainers.

He doesn’t come up for air until a hand slaps down hard on his shoulder and a bigger body than his stumbles forward, too eager on its feet, falling into step beside him.

“You’re gonna cause a pile up, mate,” Stan tells him, ruffling his hair. Louis flips him the bird as Stan turns on his feet and walks backward instead, tugging playfully at his tie in greeting.

“Bit rich coming from you,” Louis snorts, removing his earphones and tucking them in the pocket of his Helly Hanson jacket, righting the damage Stan has done on his head.

“Excited?”

“Nah,” Louis shrugs, although he is, in fact, very excited. And very nervous. He’s shitting himself if he’s being honest. Today is the ‘Donny’s Got Talent’ assembly. Which is basically a low budget production cop out because the teachers can’t be arsed to direct an actual play. “S’a bit shite aint it?”

“You love that stuff,” Stan tells him, jabbing him in the ribs with his chubby fists. Louis catches them in his hands and Stan pretends to give out. “C’mon, lad, where’s your enthusiasm? Your zest? You’re singing today, Lou! In front of people!”

“Piss off,” Louis rolls his eyes, scuffing at Stan’s shoes with the tips of his own.

“You’re gonna smash it, mate,” Stan insists, like he’s seen into the future and knows that Louis is going to sell out stadiums one day. Which is fucking stupid and unrealistic, but he appreciates the vote of confidence nonetheless.

“I’ll do better than Becky Northcott,” he says.

“She’s eating kangaroo balls,” Stans huffs. “Honestly, you’d reckon she might pick summat a little less embarrassing.”

“She’ll get the laughs,” Louis reminds him. “The laughs make you a god.”

“For a few months. And then its just cringy. Like a viral video.”

“Don’t you dare,” Louis points a very serious finger at him, the idea of the whole world making fun of Becky causing his stomach to clench. He doesn’t even like her that much; she’s a bit up her own arse. But no one deserves that kind of ridicule. “I’ll make you eat your fuckin Nokia.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Stan holds up his hands, just as his phone rings and Louis smirks, watching him go beetroot red.

“Ooooooh,” he says, “is that Ellie?”

“Fuck off.”

“It is! Hey, El!” he drawls, laughing when Stan tries to shut him up with one hand, attempting to talk to his girlfriend with the other. “Stan won’t be a moment, he’s just finishing up his morning wan-”

Louis feels the breath leave his lungs abruptly, pain keeling him over as he wildly gestures, begging Stan to let go of his ball sack where he’s gripping iron tight and looking very smug.

“Alright, babe, no worries. I’ll meet you on the courtyard at lunch. No, I’m not touching him. Babe, he just tried to humiliate me! Uggh, fine, whatever.”

Stan lets go of Louis’ crotch, leaving him to trip and stutter, eyes watering and stinging. Louis tries to swear at him but the words come out all choked and breathless. It takes him a few minutes to recover, during which time, Stan rolls them both a cig and then helps him up, handing him a lighter he nicked off his dad and waiting for him to get back to his feet.

By the time they get to the school gates, students are flooding in. The year sevens and eights are still excited to be here, chatting and laughing and jumping all over each other. The year nines look a little grumpy, but otherwise alright. It’s the year tens and elevens that drag their feet like sloths, dark lines smudging around their eyes, the weight of their upcoming GCSEs heavy on their book filled back packs, desperately muttering revision questions to each other.

“What the fuck?” Louis overhears someone exclaim as they enter through the double doors, “I got seventy. How the hell did you get twelve? I’m just – kill me now.”

“Lads,” Calvin nods at them as they sit down in the back of their tutor group classroom, Stan slamming his bag down and taking the gum out of his mouth, sticking it on the underside of the table. “How goes?”

“Louis’ pretending he isn’t crapping himself about the assembly,” Stan says, and Louis slaps him up the back of the head.

“I’m not,” he says, but it comes out a bit squeaky. Mainly because his voice is still breaking occasionally, but also because he really is crapping himself.

“C’mon, mate,” Nizam says, nudging his ankle with his foot and handing him a can of 35p happy shopper energy drink. Louis chugs on it and Calvin elbows Niz in the ribs.

“Stop giving him that shite, he’s like that fucking racoon from Over The Hedge.”

“That’s a squirrel, you knobjockey,” Nizam flicks him on the nose. “He’s fine.”

“He was up until three. ‘Working on his music’,” Stan lifts his chin and mocks him in a snooty tone. “He’s a very serious producer, don’t you know?”

“Just for that, you’re not having my snickers bar.”

“Yeah, I am,” Stan corrects him like its fact. “You can’t say no to me.”

“Watch me,” Louis says, swigging on his drink again and trying to ignore them for a few moments’ peace. The rest of their tutor group flock in closer to nine o’clock, and as the room fills, chatter makes it easier for him to fade into the background and slump in his chair with his hands in his pockets.

Normally he’d be throwing balled up bits of paper at the back of Angie O’Connor’s head or leading a hearty rendition of a Soulja Boy song to the point where another form tutor would come in and yell at him.

But today he’s just a bit tired and stressed and kind of just wants to curl up in a tiny ball of nerves and let life happen around him.

“Tomlinson.”

“Aye,” he says automatically. “Lovin the blouse today, Miss Edison. Very fetching.”

“Hmmm,” she sighs distastefully. “A simple ‘here’ would have been enough, Louis.”

“But not nearly as charming.”

She rolls her eyes and moves on, but she’s definitely blushing as she tries to get through the rest of the list and give them their daily news bulletins. The ones only two people out of twenty listen to.

When she dismisses them, its nine fifteen and they’re late for English with Nora.

Louis likes Nora. Mainly because she prefers them to call her by her first name without being cringy or awkward like all the other over-friendly idiots that fail to relate to a class of rowdy sixteen-year-olds.

But also because she’s just _cool_.

She has her hair cropped short and spiky, and always wears quirky colour lippy paired with a graphic t-shirt she’s not really supposed to wear.

It flies by as they make their way through the AQA Moon On The Tides anthology and Louis gets distracted by Stan doing a dramatic reading of Duffy’s Medusa and getting told off. Then its Math.

Which no one actually likes, and mostly sacks off because their teacher is a drill Sargent with a stick up his arse and doesn’t know how to talk to children in the slightest. He kind of looks like that pervy kind of mad doctor from films about hospitals in the sixties.

Then its break.

And Louis is getting gradually more nervous as one o’clock draws nearer and he’ll have to leave half way through RS to rehearse for his performance.

Its not that he doesn’t like performing. He does. Loves it, in fact.

Louis knew from the second he stepped out on that tiny, boxed up stage for the first time, that he was born for this.

The spotlight, the moment of clarity. Those first few seconds where your feet are numb and your knees feel like jelly and you can’t see the audience but you know they’re there. For him. To watch him. In a world full of mindless, never ending distractions; he has the attention of a room full of people for a full three minutes.

But, and it’s a big fucking but – not even the fun kind.

He’s not that good.

He’s not awful, as such. At least, he doesn’t think he’s too bad. But he isn’t multi-platinum selling either. His voice is a bit scratchy and high and imperfect, and sometimes he loses his control and feels like he totally botches it.

Usually he can make them laugh, and the moment gets brushed under the carpet. But its still in his head. Every note he’s ever tripped or choked on, every time he’s ever given a less than flawless performance. It’s stayed with him.

Stan tells him he’s stupid, that he has a great voice. ‘Top notch, mate’, he always says. ‘Gonna win a BRIT one day, I tell ya.’ Louis isn’t stupid. He’s pretty fuckin clever actually, even if his grades don’t really show it. So he knows Stan is talking out of his arse to make him feel better. Its nice, but its not real.

That’s what Louis wants one day. For it to be real.

This time though, this time its gonna be different.

This time, he’s going to sing and its not going to be perfect, but he’s not going to go wrong. He’s going to hit every note he’s set for himself. He’s even changed the key of the song a bit, just to make it less embarrassing if he cocks up.

So when Mrs Garrett interrupts Mrs Hall when she’s talking about the Pilgrimage at Mecca, Louis’ stomach falls through his ass and he drops the pen he’s been biting, cringing as it clatters over the desk to the floor. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him as he swings his bag over his shoulder, but he draws in a deep breath and grins, making to follow Garrett to the main hall.

“Have fun, ya dickheads,” he says flipping the classroom the bird. Some people laugh, others roll their eyes. Someone throws a paper airplane at him but it hits the wall next to his head.

And then the door closes and he’s off.

“Alright, Lou?” she asks as he catches up to walk beside her down the three flights of stairs.

He doesn’t mind Garrett. She’s a bit batty and looks a little like an oil painting, but her hair is all cool and chaotic and twirly and sticks up in random places and she has bright, pretty eyes that exude kindness and confidence. 

“Not bad, not bad. Yourself?”

“I’m pumped!” she says, making fists and pumping the air for emphasis. “You’re the first person I’ve come to get, so you’ll have about ten minutes in the drama room before the other performers start arriving to get ready. Thought you might want to go over your set a couple of times without any distractions.”

Scratch that, he bloody adores her.

“Gazza,” he says, “you read my mind.”

“You know it,” she winks at him as she swings the door open for him.

“There’s water on the desk, and I recommend turning the lights off and doing it in darkness once, just to centre yourself.”

“Thanks,” he says, and then she’s gone.

He drops his bag near the door and steps around the room, slowly, marking out his surroundings, sinking into the calm of this classroom.

Its different to all the others, and his favourite by far.

All the walls are painted completely back, and the carpet is the same colour. There’s very minimal furniture, save for the little staging block Gazza sits up on with her laptop whilst she’s teaching. Beside it, is the lighting deck; the controls for the large spotlights on a rig attached to the ceiling, which can be moved depending on the production.

There are wooden double doors on the far wall, which leads to a backstage area, and the desks of the other teachers and their assistants, large boxes full of strange and wonderful prop assortments, costumes, and copies of old plays Louis has always wanted to read, but could never focus on for more than a few minutes.

He comes here sometimes, when its not locked and there’s no class in here.

On lunch, he disappears, not even telling Stan where he is; and he comes here, sits in the middle of the room, and turns the lights off, just letting the darkness wrap its arms around him.

Rolling his sleeves up, he reminds himself he doesn’t have time to be an emo about it, and fiddles with the lighting decks until he’s got a single spotlight set up in the centre of the room.

Wringing out his hands and legs, he downs half the bottle of water, sets it down beside him, connects his IPod to the speakers, and places his hand on his stomach.

Focusing is a difficult feat for Louis if it doesn’t involve music.

There’s something instinctive and primal about the way it grounds him in his body and makes his head go quiet, makes all the noise and brightness and overwhelming rush of everyday life stop. It’s the only time he feels free.

Giving himself the breath he needs to keep his voice clear and strong, he allows the sounds to wash over him.


End file.
